Antiman

by Rajiv Mohabir

  With eyes wide as a tuna’s, I sat on Aji’s velvet couch.

  “Akhiya bandh kar. Shet you eye, beta,” Aji laughed.

  “I don’t want to close my eyes,” I said as I drank in all the Hindi and Creole.

  Radha bathes in a river, hiding her clothes on the bank. She knows what Sundar is up to. A pervy Sundar, having climbed a tree with his bagpipe to sing the movie’s title song, finds her clothes and thieves them with a fishing rod.

  “I will give you your clothes back when you answer my question,” says Sundar to a bathing Radha.

  “What do you want?” Radha replies, eyes besmeared in Ganga and kohl.

  “Just pretend for a moment that I am not Sundar, that I’m Gopal, and Gopal wants to ask you something.” Sundar sings.

  mere man ki Ganga

  aur tere man ki Jamuna ka

  bol Radha bol sangam

  hoga ke nahin

  My heart’s Ganga

  and yours of the Jamuna

  Tell me Radha,

  will the sangam happen or not

  Jackson Heights was bright with South Asia. Along Kalpana Chawla Way, also known as 74th Street, Pakistani and Bangladeshi stores and stalls lined the streets. Bright red and yellow silks on people and in shop windows, the smell of frying samosas, the metered rhythms of the dhol beating out bhangra beats, and a swirl of brown faces made up Jackson Heights. I was perfectly comfortable in my brown skin in this South Asian enclave. My American Guyanese-ness made more sense in Richmond Hill, the Little Guyana of Queens, where I had family. My father had told me that I was pretending to be an Indian rather than Indo-Caribbean, that people from India or Pakistan or Sri Lanka or Nepal didn’t understand me as similar to them. But I was not convinced. Yes, I was not Indian, but neither were Pakistanis nor Bangladeshis nor Nepalis nor Sri Lankans. My living in Jackson Heights added another dimension to the South Asian contingent of the area.

  All my life I had been told by my family that “Guyanese are different. We’re not like de Indiaman”—we were Coolie, great grandchildren of indentured laborers for whom India was only a myth. But I felt a kinship with other South Asians. I spoke English, learned Hindi, and loved Bollywood. All these things peppered my life like Aji’s pepper sauce, adding flavor and the burn to learn as much as I could. I moved to Queens—rather than Manhattan, Brooklyn, or the Bronx—because of a visit to Jake in Richmond Hill when I was eighteen and the trip we took to Jackson Heights to eat at a famous Indian restaurant. I saw a billboard with the Bollywood film star Shah Rukh Khan on the corner of Broadway and Roosevelt Avenue and decided, yes, this is where I wanted to be—in a brown community where grocery shopping would be easier, where I wouldn’t be profiled as often by neighbors. But now, these days of closeness with Jake were over. Though I lived in the same borough our friendship could not be mended. In fact, since moving to New York I had neither seen nor heard from any of my father’s family, despite reaching out to them when I arrived.

  Soon after I moved to my studio on 37th Avenue and 80th Street, I got a call from Farida, my friend from the Youth Solidarity Summer.

  “You are living in Jackson Heights? Wow. You win Desi of the Year Award,” she teased. We made plans to meet for dosas on 73rd Street, along with her cousin, whom I’d met at the YSS party. I remembered him as a cherub, with a round face and pink lips, who was learning leftist politics by hanging with his cousin’s friends.

  We had protested together, chanting our throats raw, “The people united will never be defeated!” in front of that same restaurant. It had since closed and reopened, rebranded, with new owners.

  “Rajiv!” Farida shouted across the room as soon as I entered the restaurant. She got up from the booth to give me a hug. Her cousin watched us from his seat, with wide eyes and a faint smile.

  “It’s so good to see you, Farida!” I said. As we embraced, I bumped the table and water from a copper tumbler spilled, her cousin jumping up to avoid it.

  “You remember Yusef,” Farida said as I moved to wipe up the mess with a napkin.

  “Sef,” he said, correcting his cousin. He grabbed a napkin from the neighboring table and wiped up the water with me. His hand brushed mine.

  “Hey, Sef. Good to see you again.” Straightening up, I looked at his eyes and saw what looked like a man. This surprised me. When I met him before, his hair was messy, his face round. Now, Sef had a jawline and stubble. He smelled of attar al haram and musk. I could feel my stomach churn as my attraction to this man pulsed through me. He was muscular yet still soft, his voice deep and kind. His broad shoulders would intimidate if not for his gentle eyes and lips as pink as cotton candy.

  We ate Pondicherry, rava masala, and butter dosas and laughed about having to finish college and how I would never leave school now that I was getting a master’s degree in teaching. I watched Sef’s lips as he ate, two pink clouds I wanted to jump into.

  Farida worked as the leader of her college’s South Asians for Justice organization, queering the Desi population with her radical politics. “It’s funny how the belief that everyone should be equal is radical,” she mused into her salty lassi. “I mean, just because I am a Muslim queer and I believe that I should be safe—how the fuck does that make me ‘radical’?”

  I nodded. “It’s so true.”

  “At least I can do something in the world to make it easier for others.” Farida finished her stainless steel cup of water.

  “I sometimes think that teaching is the easy way out—like it’s not really activist work,” I replied.

  “Actually, you’re at ground zero. I mean ESL? You’re helping people navigate the system from the stem.” Farida’s raised eyebrows arched into bows.

  “I never thought of it that way,” I replied.

  “How do you like Jackson Heights?” Sef asked.

  “It’s great, though I feel like I don’t really belong. … I’m Coolie, not really Desi. … Being Indo-Guyanese is different.” I looked at the table. “Even dosas are different for Guyanese. They are floppy and sweet, not crispy like chips.”

  “I know what you mean—we are Pakistani but there was no India and Pakistan until 1947. And before that we lived in what is now India,” Sef said. “Borders are bullshit.”

  We all laughed in agreement. Farida left, having to catch a bus back to Baltimore.

  “I am totally free, Rajiv, if you want to still hang out,” Sef said, eyebrows raised. He was tall and beautiful. I wanted to keep smelling him. I wanted to keep smelling him in my house.

  “Want to come to my place and have chai?” I said.

  He followed me to the building at the corner of 80th Street and 37th Avenue. The stone lions that guarded the entrance glared down at me as I walked by. I felt their judgment, like summer heat. I’m not doing anything wrong, I thought and wiped my brow of sweat. It was humid, with a few clouds hanging their black bellies low in the sky.

  My studio was bright and warm. The hardwood floorboards gleamed in the sunlight that shone through the kitchen window. In the afternoon, the light painted orange and gold shadows on the prewar molding.

  Sef walked around then sat on my futon—I didn’t have a proper bed. I hurried to the kitchen to boil milk.

  “This place is great!” he said from the other room, crossing his legs.

  “Yeah, especially the location. I have never been so close to so many brown people.” I laughed. I was glad that he couldn’t see me grate the ginger, then, giddy, grate my finger as I placed the grater in the sink.

  “But don’t you feel like you don’t really belong? I mean you said you are Coolie—I mean Indo-Guyanese—and these folks are Desi.”

  Desi. That word burned like too much chili when he said it. Desi—from the Punjabi, meaning “from the country.” My parents used to say, Indians from India don’t see us as Indian. My father’s own insecurity bled through my body like spilled water through a napkin.

  “Well. …” I shuddered.

  Sef got up from the futon and grabb
ed my shoulder with his large hand. “What I mean is that I have a complicated history.” His hand was steady and warm. “My father’s side is Punjabi from Amritsar and my mother’s side was originally from Sindh and stayed in Pakistan after the partition. I have a hard time explaining to Desis that I am not just Sindhi, or I am not just Punjabi. I couldn’t imagine how you have to keep insisting on your place of origin.”

  I was stunned. Sef was insightful for his age. He welcomed me as a South Asian with my own particular migration story and told his story as a parallel—a likeness that intersected with mine.

  Sef sat back down on my futon, one leg curled under the other. He was relaxed and his lips were dry. He licked them now and again and I imagined how soft they could be when wet.

  I pranced back into the kitchen and sang quietly to myself, “Mere man ki Ganga, aur tere man ki Jamuna ka.” I emerged from the kitchen with a tray carrying two cups of chai and chaat to eat.

  “Chai leejiye ji,” I sang.

  Sef laughed at my formality and took his tea. “I’m bi, by the way,” he added coolly. I looked at him. Was this really happening?

  “Oh?” I sat down next to him, almost missing the futon. My hands were sweaty and shaking. I spilled my chai. Sef was coming on to me and I wanted him to, but if anything happened with him what would his sister say? What would the other people from the protest think? The clouds let out a low rumble.

  “I’ve been out to my family for about four years,” I said, “though I had a couple boyfriends before that.” I put my cup on the ground. “Are you out to Farida?” I asked, trying to remain as cool as Sef. My leg shook and my throat balled up in anticipation. I looked at him. I was into his dark eyes and wide smile, his comfort and openness. Something about him was very familiar to me despite us being from worlds apart—my growing up in Chuluota and his young adulthood in Queens.

  “No. I am new to all of this. But I have a friend, his name is Dilip, and he has been showing me a few things.” The room was getting hot. My ears were burning and I scalded my tongue on my chai, like swallowing fire. Sef’s face pinked into his lips’ shade.

  “Dilip—he’s Desi?” I said. “What kinds of things is he showing you?” My heart beat fast in my chest and my skin warmed.

  It started to rain outside. The sun was swallowed by gray, and the air smelled of copper and electricity. Sef and I both paused to look outside.

  “Some … things … you know,” he smiled, looked at me, and put his chai cup on the ground.

  “Oh, your poor parents who have to deal with two queers in the family!” I chuckled. Sef let out a belly laugh and touched my thigh. He trailed his finger up to my zipper and unbuttoned my shorts.

  “Is this too much?” he asked. Sef placed his fingers on my skin.

  “No, it’s not.” These were all the words I could manage.

  Jackson Heights was a rush of water, a deluge.

  Gopal and Radha enter a party. She wears white silk—flowers in her hair—and he, a black suit. Sundar enters the room, carrying an accordion. Sundar sings a song for his beloved Radha and Gopal. Sundar circles Gopal, then Radha as he plays his accordion.

  Gopal, avoiding eye contact with Sundar, begins to sing.

  Gopal:

  Every heart that loves

  will sing this song

  Sundar:

  You have stolen my heart

  my eyes are next

  but don’t you know

  that wherever there are flames

  moths gather?

  Radha, sitting at a piano, sings:

  Those forgotten memories of our childhood

  spent laughing and singing

  now at night steal my sleep.

  I will confess, but how many monsoons

  have come and gone? Who knows when

  the shyness will leave my eyes?

  In the next scene, Radha and her friend read a letter to Gopal at Radha’s house. Radha’s salwar kameez, white with gold borders, contrasts with her long, black, tapering braid. Her friend snatches the letter out of her hand and runs out of the room to call Gopal.

  Gopal comes in and says, “Radha, you wanted to see me? Is everything okay?”

  Radha fumbles for her dupatta, the scarf to cover herself, and sees that it’s across the room on a couch. She runs to get it, ashamed of her state of undress.

  For months, Sef found excuses to come to my place and take off his clothes. We were a mess of late summer, our skin like afternoon’s gold light on the mattress.

  Once, we lay in bed together, Sef’s pink lips smiling into the early evening.

  “Did you know that I’m related to Dilip Kumar and that he was supposed to be in Sangam until Raj Kapoor vetoed his editorial decision?”

  “But isn’t Dilip Kumar a Hindu name?” I blinked.

  “Yes, but back then, in the 1940s, Muslim actors took on Hindu names. Have you seen Mughal-e-Azam?” He asked.

  “I’m really bad at this game,” I admitted.

  “There’s a song that you should know. ‘Teri Mehfil Mein Kismat Azmakar Ham Bhi Dekhenge,’” Sef said.

  Sef still hadn’t told his parents about me. Once, rolling back the sheets, he told me, “I will marry a woman and have children one day,” and popped a mint into his mouth.

  Why tell his parents that he slept with men too? What Coolie and Desi parents don’t know won’t kill them. I wanted to give my immigrant parents the benefit of the doubt. My own mother was finally okay, though only after she had cried for two years every time we spoke. Sef’s situation was different. His parents were different. He was the only son. I was the second son. My brother already had children, so the pressure was off of me to make my mother an Aji or my father an Aja. Sef was bi and the only son in his family and this meant something to his mother. I trusted that he’d figure himself out one day.

  “Isn’t your friend named Dilip?” I asked. We had agreed to remain casual—Sef and I were free to fuck whomever we wanted. There was no need to put a name to anything. I wanted to embody New York City and keep my options open.

  “Oh, yeah—his name is Dilip Kaniyar. His first name is Punjabi but his last name is Malayal,” he said.

  I yawned and mumbled, “It sounds like Dilip Kumar! Is he hot?”

  “He’s pretty okay; I think he is new to all of this stuff himself,” Sef said, not daring to name it. I distrusted him. I knew Sef liked me, but I didn’t want to like him just yet. He was young and naive. I looked down at the floor. Sef propped himself up on his elbows.

  Was he trying to spare my feelings? He used to tell me stories about things that he’d done to impress me. He said once he jerked off with two other men he met on the train and followed to their apartment, where they all got naked and stroked one another’s cocks. His story had several inconsistencies—mainly the timeline. He would have called me immediately after this happened, his voice trembling with excitement. We were very eager to tell each other our sex tales. Maybe he thought mine were better—the random hookups at parties, the meeting guys on subway platforms. Maybe he was trying to keep up with me, as though sexy stories made him more sophisticated. When I asked him later about particulars, he had conveniently forgotten.

  I was ready to call his bluff about Dilip. I stroked his nipple with my finger. “Do you think that he’d want to join us sometime?” I asked coyly. I wasn’t expecting anything.

  Sef stroked his stubble. “Hmm … I could ask him,” he said, tilting his head up. “This could be a lot of fun—three of us,” he said.

  I wondered if Dilip was real, or whether he’d mysteriously be unable to join us. Was Dilip mythological—that spectral lover whose presence would make Sef seem more appealing to me? I wasn’t jealous. I wasn’t.

  I was jealous.

  I thought of the movie Sangam and sang, “Sangam hoga ke nahin.” Will the meeting of these three rivers happen? In my mind, Dilip was the Saraswati River.

  “Tell him that he should come over for chai sometime.” I laughed.
“I will add extra spice and cardamom when he comes.” I was excited at the prospect of three naked brown bodies on my bed, and that meant more masala. Sef grabbed my boxers and disappeared under the sheets. His face was red and he giggled nervously.

  “I will give you back your clothes when you answer my question.” Sef’s half-smile was daring and flirtatious. I pulled the sheet from over his head. He took a few seconds to open his eyes as he smiled at me. And then he asked, “Sangam hoga ke nahi?”—Will our rivers meet? “You ready to go again?”

  Sundar sings from his boat to Radha who is on the shore. She is in love with Gopal. Sundar, seated in the Gondola with Radha in his arms, looks into her eyes and sings:

  O mehbooba, O mehbooba,

  Your heart is my only intended destination—

  That’s the only place you are not present.

  What makes you angry? What makes you glum?

  In which thinking are you drowning—

  there will be a confluence.

  One day I will hold you tight

  and everyone will be astonished.

  I will bring you to me one day.

  Radha runs along the bank while Sundar sings. At this point, Gopal is looking longingly at Radha, wanting so much to tell her how he feels. He tries to tell Sundar.

  “I have fallen in love, you know.”

  “With whom?” Sundar asks.

  “With Radha.”

  Sundar runs toward Gopal with his hands in fists. He is going to spill his friend’s blood like he did when they were children. “With my Radha?”

  Gopal gulps and answers, “Is there only one Radha? I’m in love with her, who came to be with Lord Krishna.”

  Sundar believes—or pretends to believe him. He thinks, Gopal is not in love with my Radha.